


Mémoire d'argent

by shockdroplet



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Formerly PWP, Heavensward Spoilers, Taking over my life and getting a plot, erotic drama, sexytimes in every chapter!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:39:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shockdroplet/pseuds/shockdroplet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haurchefant has adored the adventurer since the moment she stepped into his quarters in Dragonhead. After what felt like ages of loving her from afar, the two finally give in to their lust after a drunken night at the Forgotten Knight. A single night of passionate confession sparks a series of events that threatens to disrupt her destiny as Hydaelyn's Champion, as well as Haurchefant's path as a Knight of Ishgard. Follows alongside the main story quest of Heavensward, beginning shortly after the arrival in Ishgard.</p><p>{ Was initially going to be a series of smutty Haurchefant/Hero drabbles... but the story kept going and started spiraling out of control. Here, have some actual plot with your smut now. Will be taking a very sharp turn into erotic drama territory. Because you can't actually spell Haurchefant without feels. Actually, yeah, feels is nowhere in there, bUT YOU KNAWMEAN, RIGHT? YOU ~FEEL~ ME? }</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. By Chance, Your Smile

She had never imagined herself enjoying Ishgardian alcohol, but she had made the mistake of letting Haurchefant's inviting nature lure her into the Forgotten Knight. It had started with a challenge—first had come the mention of a particular malt she had tried in Gridania that called Haurchefant's nostalgic attention. Then had come Haurchefant's mention of a favorite la bière blanche, a so-called "pride and joy" of Ishgardian taverns.

Curiosity was always a weakness in Haurchefant's favorite adventurer. Perhaps he knew this when he brought it up with such novelty, as if knowing she had never tasted his beloved drink.

"You'd be surprised, my dear, at the way Ishgard fought to preserve it's production of oranges—perhaps for the sake of this particular beer alone. Coriander died out in the region after the calamity, and still, Ishgard found a way." Haurchefant had beamed a bit, speaking of the silly efforts Ishgardian brewers had made to preserve their favored white beer—perhaps that had drawn her in as well, the way he seemed to shine so brightly to speak of his home country.

He described a taste rich in the hops and herbs brewed into the concoction, of the malted barley and citrus hints in the brew, and oh, did he speak of it in a way that made the adventurer's interests pique.

"...but I doubt you've ever tried anything like it elsewhere, not even in Lominsa."

Perhaps that was the real word of challenge right there—for Haurchefant knew from their previous half-jest bickerings that his beloved adventurer loved her homeland of Lominsa and took great pride in it—especially it's people's knack for tolerating alcohol.

"Show me, then. One part of the thrill is the taste—that itself is what makes brewing such a craft," the adventurer had replied, a knowing smirk on her face, "...the other part of the thrill is just how much of an adventure one can take with such a drink. I highly doubt it compares to Lominsan lagers."

"Consider that challenge accepted," Haurchefant had met her enthusiasm with a smirk of his own. That particular moment stood out to her in later memory—that moment in which the two of them stepped into the Forgotten Knight alongside Tataru, Francel and Cid. None of their cohorts perhaps noticed that moment when the young Lord of House Fortemps met eyes with the fiery adventurer of the Scions.

They had drank together, the small group of them. Their merriment and laughter had blended in with the usual drunkeness of the Knight on certain evenings of the week. The adventurer had never thought to see any real joy in the Knight—every time she had passed through to speak with Tataru or the barkeep Aytienne, the place was as grey and dismal as the rest of Ishgard's Foundation.

But oh, how that evening saw the inn and tavern lit up. The hearth was warm and the soldiers' smiles even warmer.

Before, the adventurer had always thought Ishgardian food to be bland and dry. Perhaps that night, treating their small party to good drinks and better food, her opinions changed. As per the alcohol—she had to concede defeat in the face of Haurchefant's recommended beer. The faint citrus in it's taste brought a fond memory of Lominsa's tropical summers. Within the first glass she felt a mixture of homesickness, nostalgia, and something akin to inner peace—after so many months away from home, she hadn't realized how much she needed a familiar taste.

Haurchefant, ever the social butterfly, the flirt, the ever-perfect host, led their group's chatter and storytelling with Cid, sharing with them tales of a side she had never thought existed in the Isghard she knew. Stories of spring, years ago, when the snows only fell in the winter and when Haurchefant and his brothers climbed the hills in Coerthas to see their beloved city in the distance. Stories of summer, when the storms would roll in from Abalathia's Spine and light up the stone of the city with the scent of petrichor that the adventurer knew all too well from Lominsa's streets.

Perhaps Cid's voice went unheard by the adventurer after the third beer. Perhaps Tataru and Francel had dozed off too soon, before Cid carried them both off back to their lodgings in the Fortemps manor. At some point, however, she had wound up, there, alone with Haurchefant and their fourth tall glasses of beer. Their glasses clinked, a fourth cheers, and with buzz-fueled laughter, they drank.

Haurchefant had inched closer to her over the course of the night—granted, he'd picked the seat next to her own, to no surprise. The knight had made it (almost uncomfortably) evident that he had more than simple fascination with the adventurer—breathless fixation, lust-filled sighs and longing gazes as she recounted her mission debriefings, even a few odd wordplays at the last Heavensturn festival that had left her blushing. It was no surprise that by their fourth round, he had become so close that their thighs touched and she could feel his breath against her cheek when he spoke a bit too closely to her—occasionally he'd inch away, laughing gently, "Forgive me, I forget that folk outside of Ishgard have a rather larger 'bubble' of personal space."

"No, it's alright. I can imagine with it being so cold up here all the time, personal space is an unaffordable luxury."

Haurchefant laughed, "You put it rather harsh, dear adventurer."

She took another deep drink of the beer and shrugged, "The north is a cold place… always was. Otherwise you'd see more of my kind around here."

His eyes glanced downward for a second—perhaps to her hips, to her crossed legs, then back up again to her face—and he answered, "You do bring a sort of southern flame to this icy place. Perhaps I wasn't crazy to think as much when I first met you."

"Oh, no, dearest, dearest Haurchefant. You are, in fact, perhaps the craziest soul I've come across as an adventurer. A completely batty madman." The adventurer spoke with a teasing grin, but as she thought more on the words crossing her lips, the more she realized how accurate they were, "…but that is hardly a bad thing. Perhaps it's what makes you stand out so brightly in a sea of so many faces I've seen thus far. I've spoken to so many people, heard so many voices… and at the end of the day, yours is the one I recall most clearly. Yours in all it's breathless excitement and quirky… oddity."

Haurchefant was gazing at her in the way he did when he was utterly enamoured with her words—it made her laugh.

"What? What is it?" He asked.

"It is just you," the adventurer laughed, "…just how you could hear yourself described in such a way and not even bat an eye. I take it I'm not the first to say you're a strange one. But then again… perhaps it's not so much that you're strange as much as… I find I wish more people were like you. Curious. Interested in every walk of life."

Her voice trailed off as she caught herself mimicking the way Haurchefant leaned his head on one palm, gazing intently at her. Like a lovestricken dote, she too was gazing right back at him in the very same way. Surely, even without the alcohol, she was certain she would be feeling the same quickening of her heartbeat or the heat in her cheeks. Perhaps now, however, she felt brave enough to show her most vulnerable self to the Elezen. With enough drinks, perhaps, she could forget that she lived a life where she could die any day and leave a lover's life devastatingly alone.

"One more round?" The adventurer said, breaking the silence. She brushed one foot against Haurchefant's leg—and amusingly enough, her own legs were so short that the tips of her boot could only reach just down his long calves. As he smiled back, she felt him move his leg closer. His cerulean eyes glanced downward at her again, then away, and she caught sight of just how pink his fair cheeks had become.

"Right, then. One more round it is. I could easily go for several, but if you insist on only one…" Haurchefant teased.

"Oh, do not challenge me, my dear."

"And what if I do?" Haurchefant grinned.

"You might just lose—you may have a body that can take more drink, but never you forget, I have one that has slain Garlean Commanders."

He made an expression as though to say he was both teased and impressed by this. Surely, he was going to have her recount that particular story to him for the seventh time, but instead, he signaled for the barmaid to bring them another pair of drinks.

When he turned back to her, she was amazed at how he had managed to somehow get closer. She wasn't sure if he was simply a skilled flirt or if she was, perhaps, reaching her alcohol limit and not noticing certain details.

But he was there, facing her now. For a moment, there were no words between them. Just a very long glance, his wintery eyes on her own, his face cradled in one palm. He watched her with the sort of dopey smile of a lad in puppy love. A certain thought crossed the adventurer's mind—how she'd once looked at a certain boy in the very same starry-eyed fashion so many years ago, and how so many had come and gone and even died in such a short few years since.

Presently, there was only Haurchefant. Stupidly tall, as fitting of an Elezen man. Stupidly gorgeous, as fitting of an Elezan man. Hair as silvery-blond as the stars over Ishgard and eyes as blue as the Rhotano sea. Perhaps somewhat of a dork, she mused. He breathed so loudly, unintentionally, even when she wasn't this near (but oh, did he breathe so much louder in her presence, did he move so much slower in her presence, as though drunk on her very being—she noticed it all, and had at first been wary of it, but now, found it oddly endearing.) He gazed at her the way he did when she spoke with him and drank with him in Dragonhead keep, when he sighed to her from across that massive desk, "Tell me more."

"What if I—what if I were to challenge you?" Haurchefant asked, half-cautiously. Before she could react in confusion to his question, stirred from her own thoughts, she felt his fingertips—long, oh, so long—fingertips brushing through her hair.

"…challenge you to… perhaps…" He trailed off, gazing again, before he quietly chuckled, "…forgive me, I've forgotten where I was going with this."

"I imagine a joke about riding unicorns." The adventurer answered.

With a wide grin, Haurchefant nodded, "Ah, yes. Yes, it was most likely this. Yes."

They both laughed.

When her gaze made sideward, she realized their pair of drinks had arrived and she quickly made for her glass to break the silence.

As the icy cold drink crossed her lips, as she drank heavily and quick, she realized that the flutter inside of her was the very same one she felt the first day she'd met him. The very same she had bashed down and buried away in the furthest recesses of her heart—'I can't get close to anyone ever again.'

Haurchefant was watching her down this drink quickly, puzzled at first, before taking it as a challenge and he made to down his drink in tandem. She hadn't meant it to be a guzzling competition, but there it was, and before they could both stop to realize that neither had meant a challenge, both had downed their drinks in a huff, faster than their buzz could be exacerbated by the brew.

With a breath (and a quiet belch) the adventurer set the glass back down on the table's surface, realizing she'd just stormed through the fifth glass when she'd really wanted to stretch their conversation, their moment out as long as she possibly could.

"I want this moment to go on forever." She blurted aloud, absently.

"As do I—" Haurchefant quickly added, leaning closer to her.

Without a second thought, the adventurer turned to him, she gripped him by the collar and took whatever kiss he'd probably been leaning gently in for. She met his calm with stormy fervor, having dreamt of and craved his soft, slender lips for weeks at that point. Her grip tightened on him, traveling downward across his shoulders, his chest, meeting the feverish intensity he grabbed and pulled her against him with. His tongue tasted like the beer they'd swam in for much of the night and his breaths were scented just as intoxicatingly. As a soft moan escaped him—and oh, how easy it was for Haurchefant to moan—he pulled her closer. Unintentionally, her hand brushed over his thigh, his cock, rock-hard under his trousers. A soft gasp escaped him and he took her hand by the wrist, guiding it back over his length as he kissed with deeper hunger.

All of it somehow managed to be so subtle, unnoticed by those around them. When the kiss finally broke, their breaths heavy, he gazed into her eyes—the once-gentle blue had suddenly become so intense, like the peaceful waves of the sea becoming a tsunami. She never backed down from any challenge, but for a brief second, caught in his gaze, his lust, his very need, she may have shied away had she been sober.

"Dearest, most wonderful, beloved hero… you have no idea how much I adore you."

"Stop that… you're gushing like a lovestruck lad…" The adventurer sighed, trying to look away, trying her hardest to remain aloof. He took the gentlest hold of her chin when she threatened to face away and met her gaze once more, this time with demand.

"I am a lovestruck lad."

"You barely know me."

"Let me know you. Dreaming about you every night can only sustain me for so long."

"Haurchefant, please. You couldn't possibly…"

"Oh, I could, my dear. And I do." She felt his fingers grazing gently through her hair again, she shut her eyes as a comfortable sigh crossed her lips when his fingertips grazed across her cheek. He stole another kiss at that moment, kissing gently at first, then hard, as though she had tapped into that lustful thing that dreamt of her nightly and said her name with such craving.

"Since the moment I saw you… I needed you."

She wondered if it had been mutual—if he had merely mirrored the desire she felt the first time she laid eyes on him in Dragonhead. All that desire she had owed to simple loneliness. His kisses came and never stopped, his tongue moved against hers, and didn't relent. Perhaps then she noticed a few heads turning in their direction. Perhaps then she tasted the old sting of fear—fear of letting anyone in. The adventurer gently pushed him back, her hands on his chest, and he gave reluctantly.

"Forgive me."

"No need for that." The adventurer confessed, her lips tingling from the sudden attention. She met his gaze again—he was so intensely fixated on her in that way that was so typically Haurchefant—and she said, "Take me… somewhere we can be alone."

Leaning in, speaking bemusedly against her ear, Haurchefant confessed, "Perhaps it is well you ask this… I was so lost in you that I may have taken you right here."

The adventurer grinned, "Oh, no, my dear Lord Haurchefant—it'd be I who would be taking you."

He made a half-moan, half-sigh against her ear, before inhaling sharply against her neck, "You have no idea what kind of lust I have for you, my dear." She felt his grip tight against her hips, pulling her closer to him, fingers pressed so hard against her flesh she was sure to find bruises later. It was the kind of needful desire she'd dreamt of—from him. That idiot elezen with his goofy smile and breathy, exasperated declarations of hope and goodness. Dear Menphina, she had craved him for ages and was watching that craving reach it's absolute breaking point right before her very eyes.

"Is that so, my love? Because I consider that a challenge as well… and you know what we say to challenges."

She had met his gaze again once more, taking up the challenge in another feverish kiss.

Between that moment in the Forgotten Knight and their arrival in his bed, she remembered a few things. The snow and how it fell slowly from the pitch-black sky like cold, gentle stars. His hands on her body, squeezing, groping, kneading at the curves she hadn't even realized she had. The way they laughed together when his needy grips had lead to her pinned against a cold wall somewhere on the way to the Fortemps manor and how Haurchefant had been whispering sweet nothings against her lips before clumsily slipping on ice. She had fallen straight onto her arse, but was drunk enough not to feel a thing but slight numbness and more laughter at how stupid the two of them were together.

She remembered glancing downward as they walked, talking together about the night. She watched their fingers intertwine together, their hands clasped tightly like old lovers, as Haurchefant spoke, "Call it bleak if you like, but when you see Isghard in the spring, let me tell you my dear, the flowers do, in fact, bloom. Small, fragile trees bring forth the tiniest, pink, five-petaled flowers and as the spring advances into summer, each petal falls into the wind like vast pink waves."

He smiled at her with so much hope and kindness and fixation on the future in a way that was so very Haurchefant when he said, "Come see it with me?"

"I promise I will." The adventurer had said, giving her very soul with her word—her word not to wander off on her newfound lover, not to stray away in her utter fear of settling down and away from expedition. Her word not to die in battle.

Between those words and the manor, she remembered only a blur of drunk kisses and perverse jokes—oh, how certain she was to ride a certain unicorn that evening—and then, the warmth of his room, the familiar scent that was so very him.

He laid her down on his bed, kissing her neck and her lips and unclasping the light armor on her chest and shoulders as she did the same for him. His silvery hair was just as silken to touch as it looked. His kisses were just as gentle, yet just as hungry as she'd imagined from the way he always seemed to hold back sighs in the past, as if simply being in one another's presence brought him to the edge.

Haurchefant's grip on her slender, much-smaller body was tight and possessive, the sort of hold that would leave marks—and oh, how she wanted to count each and every one when the night was over.

Somehow, they both wound up entirely naked together, rolling around in his sheets and grinding their bodies together in a passionate hold. They were drunk on each other's kisses and taste, on scent and desire. Haurchefant pulled her up onto his hips as he sat back against the headboard, both hands tightly holding her rear. He guided her hips in a rhythm against his cock that she met with eager need. All of the foreplay had left her so wet, so heated, that his length pressed into her with an ease that made them both gasp.

They moved hard and fast, gentle and slow, they made love for what felt like a perfect eternity, some moment they wanted to last forever. The two tumbled about, crying out each other's names and pawing at each other with feverish need. Her nipples were surely going to be sore the next day from the way Haurchefant sucked and even teased with his teeth. In all fairness, however, his back was going to be marked with tiny red lines that matched her nails.

They were sheen with sweat as they satiated each other's hunger. Haurchefant's moans against his beloved adventurer's ear as she rode his cock would linger in her mind for ages until their next tryst.

The way her back arched against his body when he moved atop her and thrust deep inside would be the subject of his every single dream for the next few weeks.

Moreover, however, their kisses—disheveled and frantic by the time their climax neared—and their bruisingly tight hold on one another—those would carve the most vivid memories in their minds.

He whispered her name over and over, intermingled with drunken moans of, "My love…" and "I need you, I need you," and she met his sighs with equal delight.

"Oh gods, oh Menphina, I can't—I'm going to… oh gods…" He breathed, before burying his lips against her shoulder and neck. He pulled her so tight against him she could swear he could have knocked the breath from her had she had any left from all her cries. Wet heat filled her as both of their thighs became slick from both of their climaxes. She ground her hips against him, drawing out blissful sighs and the cutest, weakest little cries of, "M-my love, my love, my love… oh gods… oh my gods…"

Finally they came down from their cloud, collapsing against one another into the soft silken sheets.

For a second, she felt the actual cold of the air meeting the dampness of their bodies, but that chill went away quickly as she huddled against her lover and he pulled the blankets over them.

Haurchefant stroked and played with her hair as he held her body against his—for that moment she felt so small against him, but so safe. For a moment she could forget she was some sort of renowned hero and be, for just a short moment, a girl in love.

She dozed off, a girl in love, and Haurchefant held his beloved adventurer, whispering into her ear softly, "Dream well, my beloved."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the main character/player-character, I'm going to do my best to keep her nameless and undescribed physically, so the story is left more accessible to everyone reading. She certainly has a name besides "the adventurer" and has a specific hair and eye color, but I just don't want to describe it and break the reader's sense of immersion. I'll see how far I can get before I mention what race she is, haha~ let's challenge the mystery. Also, our protagonist in this story may be a lady, but I firmly buy into the headcanon that Haurchefant is unabashedly bisexual. It'll be noted ;) Please look forward to it.
> 
> Thanks for reading and thanks for the kudos & comments, lovelies! <3
> 
> Edit, aug 22;  
> So I gave in and made some art to accompany the fic and... well, okay, secret's out, the adventurer is a miqo'te with a fluffy tail. nAME IS STILL LEFT AMBIGUOUS, THOUGH. INSERT YOUR CHARACTERS AS YOU LIKE <3


	2. From Circumstance, A Resolve To An End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not to say regrets are had—far from it, in fact. 
> 
> But there are very clear reasons why this certain pair of lovers are star-crossed, why their love must be snuffed out before it grows.
> 
> And in spite of all doubt, in spite of snow and ice falling on the flames inside of them, there still glows embers threatening to light.

Dawn came, bringing with it the pangs of soreness from the previous night. The adventurer woke, held tight in great, long arms, pulled close against Haurchefant's body. His snowy skin was warm and his hold on her a full and possessive one. He slept with a soft snore, face all but buried in her hair. She moved to look up at him, to glance around the room at their surroundings—she had never been inside of his bedchamber until that night. Shifting sideward awoke the sting in the many bruises littering her naked body—legs, thighs, hips, even her breasts felt roughed up and her nipples sore from Haurchefant's overzealous mouth. She tried shifting around again, to face away and figure where she was, only to find herself a bit trapped in under the weight of his leg strewn over her.

With a sigh, the adventurer gave in to his hold. She'd initially had mind to climb swiftly from the bed, put her clothes back on, and make for the door. Something in his kraken-like hold on her had defeated that impulse, however.

Managing to finally move her body to where her back was comfortably against his chest, she drew his arms closer to her—gods, how warm he was and how cold mornings were in Ishgard—and let her gaze fall to the curtained window across the room. Slivers of grey light tore in through the heavy fabric adorned with a design that was so typically House Fortemps. Haurchefant's quarters were also very typically him—small relics from places distant from Ishgard, maps framed and hung about the walls, spears and even a single body of dragoon's armor placed afar. The adventurer's eyes went back on the armor.

Had he been a dragoon at one time? The armor certainly looked like it could fit… it was a lighter shade of the typical dark armor she'd seen on the dragoon Estinien. Perhaps more akin to a lower ranking officer. Perhaps it was simply in memory of a friend. Admittedly, she found it hard to picture Haurchefant brandishing a dragoon's lance… or perhaps, it was the single-mindedness she'd seen in all other dragoons she'd met that she couldn't fathom Haurchefant fitting in with.

At some point, she dozed off again. It was only when she felt hot kisses on her neck and jawline that she stirred again to the sight of Haurchefant's smiling face.

"Good morning, my love… pray tell, you slept sound and dreamt of us?"

She laughed quietly, "You lovesick git… I slept better in your arms than I have in years."

"Splendid," Haurchefant whispered against her lips, kissing softly this time. Letting his kisses trail down her neck, across her collarbone, he sighed, "I could sleep next to you always, you know."

"You don't waste a second, do you?"

"I'd be a true fool to risk a future of nights without you. Gods, what I would give to wake up beside you every morning."

There was that young girl inside of her that still wished for love—the dreamy, bubbly, eternal sort that bards sang of, that princesses shared with knights, the sort that Haurchefant waxed lyrical of against her bare skin.

However, the adventurer lived a life that could not afford such folly. After losing more than a single loved one, both familial and romantic, she had locked that young girl away early on with very conscious disdain.

And yet… there he was, that fool, that silver-haired young git bringing pink to that locked away maiden's cheeks. She wasn't sure if she was flattered or irritated by his amorous antics. At least, certainly, she wasn't ready for it to stop, nor was she ready to leap out of those sheets and bolt away.

Even still, as he loomed over her, kissing a trail down her body, she felt he could snatch her up and pin her down with ease—not that she'd want to fight it.

At some point between the thoughts in her mind and the kisses near her navel, their fingers had intertwined again. Haurchefant pulled her body even closer as he kissed lower. She gave in happily to his touch. The two of them lost track of time easily as they indulged in each other's bodies, their tastes, their sighs and moans. Haurchefant guided his lover onto his lap, pleading her to ride him—she jokingly teased, "like my own personal steed?"—half-laughing, half sighing in bliss, he nodded, "Ah, yes, yes let me be your steed!"

"Oh gods, you are insufferable!" Her voice wavered as her slender body bounced atop his lap.

"And yet you can't get enough, can you, my dear?" Haurchefant teased. Tumbling his smaller lover onto her back, he pulled her legs around his waist, penetrating her deep and slow, "Ahh, now… now you get to be my personal steed, love."

"Nnnn… Haurchefant, you fool…!"

They succumbed to each other for an ardent romp despite their collected battle scars from the night before. In all effort to bring one another to the edge, they lost track of time and only collapsed back into the sheets again as noon neared. They kissed fervently, holding each other tight.

"We've… really slept in." She murmured.

"Well, we weren't exactly sleeping."

"True… but I'm sure we're going to walk out there to be met with some words."

She could Haurchefant grin against her neck, "Well worth each and every syllable."

"Can't argue that."

 

* * *

 

That afternoon was a quiet one—Cid, Tataru, Alphinaud, they had all left early to go about their investigations. Francel had been the only one who slept in as long as she and Haurchefant. The weariness of a hangover was painted all over the young man in ways that made clear he was the lightest lightweight she'd ever seen.

He passed her in the halls, holding close to his breast a tall mug of strong tea. Francel gave the adventurer a pleasant "Morning, ma'am."

Perhaps Francel would have passed her without a second thought if she hadn't looked up at him and drew more attention with a hello. But he certainly did a double take at all the cherry-red marks littering her neck and collar. Francel's sickly pale face suddenly took on it's own shade of rolanberry red.

"A-ah, p-pleasant morning, isn't it! You're uh… well, I—pardon me!" Francel stammered, struggling to take his eyes from Haurchefant's work.

The adventurer felt a slight sting of embarrassment tugging her collar up just a touch higher.

"O-oh, yes, definitely a lovely day!" She answered, before hurrying onward to the bath.

The steamy waters were all too welcome. Try as she might to shoo the House Fortemps servants away, they still insisted on drawing her a bath enriched with chamomile and ginger. Say what one will of Ishgardians and their hermeticism—having been there, she found that she'd never met more enthusiastic hosts.

Finally alone, she relaxed, soaking in the herbal scent and letting her mind pore over all that had come of the last twelve or so hours. Perhaps a part of her had always expected to wind up bedding with Haurchefant, what with his relentless advances and all the evenings they spent sharing stories of travel and combat—how late into the night they would talk together back in Dragonshead keep! Although despite that, despite his humorous flirtation, she hadn't let the thought of his bare, beautiful body cross her mind, much less imagine that body taking her so passionately.

"He was just a romantic sort of man, prone to flights of fancy," was what she'd always described him as—enamored not with her, but with her tales of places far beyond his immediate reach.

She was no warrior of light, not the way he always seemed to paint her as such. She was an adventurer, a lowly girl with a lance from a nowhere island in the Rhotano. Her gift from Hydaelyn was hardly the strength inborn within the fabled warriors of light—her gift was merely being in the wrong place at the right time.

Had she not chanced upon the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, she would not be there.

There was no time to fall in love, she reminded herself.

She wasn't sure if she was beginning to feel some regret or if she found herself craving that fanciful fool all over again.

 

* * *

 

 

"You really don't care what comes of your own heart, do you?" Francel glared in a way Haurchefant was all too familiar with.

"Francel, there is really no need for you to be so upset. In fact, shouldn't one be happy for a dear friend's chance in love?" Haurchefant was pulling on his chainmail, clasping it comfortably on his form. A servant made to fit his armor on as another arrived with Haurchefant's sword and shield.

The younger elezen was all of unimpressed with Haurchefant's glowing happiness.

"I would be overjoyed for you, Haurchefant, but you know full well why this particular chance is entirely off limits to anyone," Francel struggled to keep calm in his voice—but Haurchefant's glow seemed to dim as he caught onto the anger in his friend's voice. Still, he kept his eyes fixed on his reflection in the tall mirror, preening.

"She is not just any adventurer coming through Coerthas for you to fall head over heels for as you always do. She is not Kiergan, nor is she Y'mira."

Haurchefant darkened further at the mention of those names, and yet still, Francel's lecture continued.

"If she is distracted, she may fail, and if she fails, it is not as inconsequential as when Kiergan and Y'mira—"

"Don't dare, Francel, don't dare even imply that their deaths were meaningless!" Haurchefant all but threw down the shield he'd been setting into it's fastenings. Francel's collar was gripped tight in Haurchefant's fist, and as though catching himself, catching uncharacteristic volume—the sort only few knew were all too characteristic—he quieted himself, but spoke with a voice laced in ice, "Don't even say their names, for I'm full aware of all the bitterness you had for them. You have no right."

"When they died, entire nations weren't left vulnerable to Garlean forces or vicious Primals and you know it," Francel hissed.

Haurchefant could feel his grip going white-knuckled. He could feel the sting of tears welling in his eyes and the threat of a frown tickling the corners of his mouth. Swallowing back a hot wave of wrath for the sake of an old friend, he released Francel and let his hands drop to his sides. For a beat, he had thought to say some smart quip, to defend his bond with the Scion's champion, with Ishgard and with Eorzea's beautiful champion.

But there was a sickening drop in his gut as he understood how disgustingly -right- Francel was.

"I do not wish to think of such things."

"You live your entire life in the clouds. You're so high up on your own fantasies that you forget what happens down here among us less fanciful men. You may think you need her, but you must understand we need her more." Francel gestured to the servants, politely requesting, "Please leave us."

The servants, having stepped back by reflex upon Haurchefant's outburst quickly nodded and hurried out.

"You cannot keep this up with her, Haurchefant. Have you even given thought to the consequences? What becomes of female warriors when they find themselves with child? Who then would Eorzea have to be her champion? How, then, do you suppose your father would react to news of a half-breed grandchild? House Fortemps may have a reputation of being the most welcoming and gentle towards outsiders, but your father is just as proud as any Ishgardian of his generation. Proud to a fault."

Haurchefant was shaking his head, denying Francel's words, "No, no, you don't understand this at all, Francel, I've not just thought about it, I've dreamt of it, dreamt of a life with her. She's been in my dreams since the moment I saw her in Dragonhead. I've thought of it all—I could fight for her, I could, I would so very happily fight in her stead and not a damned thing would ever be said of our family."

"Hardly admirable things have ever been said of half-breeds. Perhaps even a half-Hyur would be accepted as the Mongrel has, but…" Francel trailed off, before giving up and sighing, "Forgive me, I've been cruel. I will not say unnecessarily cruel, but… you simply don't see our country for all it's faults the way you should, Haurchefant. Your heart has always been such an open one. One not befitting of an Ishgardian knight. And that is perhaps the most admirable thing about you. But you have a part to play, my friend."

"This is pitiable, Francel…" Haurchefant looked as though he were nearing a breaking point, "I love her, I love her with the entirety of my soul."

"I know you do. You never shut up about her when she's away and you can't be pulled away from her when she's near to save a life. But you need to put what's important first."

Haurchefant's hand was gentle on his friend's shoulder, though he said nothing. Francel gave Haurchefant's hand a gentle squeeze, "You understand this, don't you my friend?"

"I understand." Haurchefant breathed.

 

* * *

 

 

The adventurer hadn't seen hide nor hair of Haurchefant between that morning in House Fortemps and her boarding Cid's ship en route for Abalathia's Spine. Alphinaud was quiet in his seat near a window, gazing out at the clouds. He was hardly impressed at the news of the adventurer's hungover state and had made not to speak to her the entire morning. It made her wonder what other news had reached Alphinaud's ears. Perhaps the rumors were already spreading that she'd spent the night with Lord Haurchefant—nobles in castle-cities like that had little else to do but gossip and backbite, she mused with some bitterness.

She had gone out of her way to avoid crossing paths with Haurchefant. She wasn't sure if he'd sought her out or simply left straight for his duties in Dragonhead. She'd hoped for both of their sakes that he had. She wouldn't have called their time together any form of a mistake, but she knew that the two of them were better for putting space between.

At least, that was as much as her rational self could say.

There was still a small voice of her very own inside of her that wouldn't shut up about how wonderful he was.

"Just a lovestricken fool…" She reminded herself.

"Pardon?" Alphinaud's voice came.

"Oh, nothing, I'm just talking to myself." The adventurer said.

"You are prone to that, aren't you?" Alphinaud chuckled.

"Perhaps," The adventurer confessed, watching the clouds, "…Alphinaud, what is to become of an adventurer who falls in love?"

Alphinaud shrugged, "I suppose it would depend on the adventurer. There are a many great stories told of adventurers who meet each other during their travels and once falling in love, they never part. There are stories of adventurers who fight alongside each other until the bitter end. Then there are tales of adventurers who give up the sword for a peaceful life, retiring to the arms of their beloved."

A warm smile creeped up on the elezen boy's face as he recounted, "…my dear sister, she was an avid reader of these sorts of books. I had always thought them to be fantastical trash. Sure, there had been some she favored, the sort of historical tales spun by bards and caught on paper by scholars. She had a mind for romantic tales. I'm sure, even right now, wherever she might be, she has at least two leatherbound novellas in her satchel."

The adventurer took some amusement in how fondly Alphinaud spoke of Alisaie for once. It was a rare moment that he spoke of his twin with anything other than exasperation and irritation. She herself had never been lucky enough to have siblings, but she could only imagine with some envy what it must be like to love another and to grow up with them so closely.

"…do you think we'll always be fighting?" The adventurer asked.

"I would hope to find some time of peace in the near future," Alphinaud confessed, "…grandfather always said that youth was fleeting and shouldn't all be wasted on the battlefield. We fight for a time where we may experience such peace."

"I'm not sure I'd be able to stop fighting."

Alphinaud glanced over at the adventurer, taken aback, "What makes you say that?"

"It's all I've known."

The elezen youth made a thin line with his lips, thinking on his words before he spoke, "Perhaps one day you'll see an age, or a place like I once knew in Sharlayan. Maybe then, you might find there are other ways of fighting for one's own personal peace."

The adventurer took this in and then felt a soft laugh escape her, "Since when have you become so philosophical?"

"I suppose I have little else to think about when I'm not bickering with my sister." Alphinaud grinned.


	3. In Lovely Clouds, A Lovely Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventurer has gone forward to Camp Cloudtop to assist in the duties of Haillenarte and Fortemps. By assist, I mean she's stuck playing babysitter to Emmanellain who does naught but cause trouble for the good Captain Laniaette. All the while, a certain silver-haired Fortemps boy lingers on the adventurer's mind despite her best efforts to focus on the mission at hand. Elsewhere in Coerthas, Haurchefant has taken to brooding over the lack of word from the adventurer he'd craved for so long—and had only just become even closer to. Francel continues to remind him where he is needed—but his heart continues to remind him what he needs.

A few days had passed since their initial arrival in Camp Cloudtop. The adventurer fit in well among the House Haillenarte soldiers and was taken in with warm welcome by their commander, Laniaette. Their days were marked by patrols and quiet observations of the local Vanu tribes—Laniaette had made it clear not to meddle in Vanu affairs, for they may have been peaceful at one time, the recent days had shown them to be increasingly agitated by Ishgardian presence. 

Emmanellain was all but insufferable. A ward to babysit, the adventurer had come to realize. 

The lad was the youngest of the House Fortemps sons—he looked to be almost ten years Haurchefant’s junior. There was little resemblance between the youngest Fortemps boy and Haurchefant, the adventurer noted with some amusement. Not like the resemblance between Haurchefant and his similarly-aged brother Artoirel. Every so often, however, Emmanellain would overhear something of amusement and break out in fanciful laughter that reminded her of his silver-haired sibling. 

Perhaps it was those moments she found the most irritation with.

Four days and not a word from Haurchefant. By chance, she’d overheard him speaking with Laniaette by linkpearl, reporting word from Ishgard that another wave of supplies were en route to Camp Cloudtop. The adventurer had said nothing as she stood guard not a far distance from Emmanellain (who thought himself to be leading a scouting troupe) but his voice did lend to a certain pang of longing. Not so much the kind of longing that could be quelled by a romp with some stranger in a tavern—no, it was a sort of longing she’d felt years ago, before she’d even left Lominsa. 

A frown had settled on her face when Haurchefant’s last call ended in his usual “Be safe, friends.” 

 _“Be safe, friends.”_  Emmanellain sneered as he gazed through binoculars at a camp of Vanu huntsmen in the distance. The adventurer’s eyes snapped toward the ebony-haired lad with fury comparable to Halone’s. It went unnoticed as Emmanellain chuckled to himself at his mocking impression of his brother, “What a veritable arse-kisser.”

“Your brother is a kind-hearted soul who goes above and beyond to look out for his friends. Being his brother, you should know this better than anyone.” The adventurer finally spat through grit teeth.

Emmanellain snorted, “You really have no idea what it’s like to have a bastard sibling, do you? Why father caters to him so, Artoirel and I will never know, but let it never be said Haurchefant enjoys more privilege than any bastard could hope to chance.”

“Your words are cruel. What I would give to have a sibling to love, much less, one as wonderful as Haurchefant.”

Emmanellain finally tore away from the binoculars—if only to roll his eyes at the adventurer in a way only a teenager could, “He’s a git. A mildly useless one at that.” 

The adventurer felt her fists clench, “You watch your tongue, boy.”

“Or else?” Emmanellain pressed her temper with a cocky grin, “…don’t forget, you are a ward of my father’s house, and in this camp, I am your senior officer.”

She would have gladly drawn her spear at that moment had he not been Haurchefant’s family. Even happier so, she would have loved to give the boy a slight nudge in the back by her boot, watch him tumble over the edge and into the sea of clouds— _“Oh, Emmanellain? Last time I saw ’em, a Vanu Gundu was sitting on him. Alas, I’ll miss the little shite. When do we return to Foundation?”_

Evening fell. 

With the day’s end came the most vast ocean of stars Eorzea could have ever offered. 

Camp Cloudtop was windy and utterly freezing in a brisk way unlike Coerthas during the whitest blizzard. The adventurer loathed to admit that she truly was built for hotter climates, but with her teeth chattering and a wool blanket wrapped around her, she conceded defeat. She sat atop a hill near camp, watching the stars move and the moon rise, great, full, and silver. 

 _“Easy now,”_  she reminded herself,  _“…perhaps it is better not to hear from him, better not to speak with him. There are more pressing things to occupy one’s mind, most importantly, the rest of the scions, the sultana, of Eorzea itself.”_

Her eyes were wistful, no matter how hard she tried not to give a damn about that silver-haired fool and their tryst the nights before—and she could only wonder if Haurchefant had ever seen the stars from Cloudtop the way she saw them now. 

 

* * *

 

Haurchefant had no mind for the typical procedures in Dragonhead the day she left—his mind was still too fixated on  _her_  and despite his best efforts, nothing else could demand his attention. More than once did his soldiers comment on a dazed expression, more than once did Francel’s voice snap him back to reality. Coerthas was often a gray place, but after tasting such an exquisite soul just hours before, the entire world could have been bleak and monochrome for all he cared.

 _“Never forget, you fool, you have a duty, an oath to your beloved country,”_  He quietly reminded himself. Paperwork and missives earned only half his interest at best. Absent-minded, he drummed his fingertips on the vast desk’s surface.

His mind was entirely occupied by the thought of her slender body, the way the top of her head only came up just shy of his chest, and of the ease in which he could pick her up and feel her legs around his waist. Even that very desk he sat at played a part in many a fantasy—for each time in the past she had visited Dragonhead, he kept collected as best he could. All while in his mind he dreamt of sending out his guards and taking her on that desk faster than she could unclasp her armor. 

The imaginings left him hot and hard. More than once he stole away to get a cold breath of air from outside in hopes of staving off the daydreams.

The first day passed wretchedly slow—after the time she and her scion friends arrived in Ishgard, her presence had come to feel like something that had simply always been in his life. Lovesick without her, after a mere day. The notion brought a slight chuckle as he fought off his mind’s want to well on her.

“You’re still busying your mind with her, aren’t you?” Francel had asked. The two had been walking in silence from the mess hall. Often, their walks were littered with conversation. It seemed Francel caught on to Haurchefant’s silence as a sign of a heavy weight on his mind—and let it never be said that Francel was not gifted at knowing when it was a pressing matter versus Haurchefant’s own penchant for moods.

“You guess too accurately, friend.” Haurchefant confessed.

“Fate has dealt you an unfair card.” Francel said.

“It wouldn’t be the first, however—” Haurchefant feigned a smile, “—it is not fitting to be made melancholy by it.”

Francel did not return the smile, but instead, merely eyed Haurchefant as though reading behind the pleasant mask on the Lord’s face. 

Haurchefant’s smile began to falter at this.

“It is in your nature to be made melancholy by some things and utterly manic by others. I can only pray that you find a stable middle-ground between such polarities. I don’t want to see you torn apart again. Not like before. It kills me to see you suffer like that, friend.” Francel almost pleaded these words—and a spark of anger lit up in Haurchefant.

Haurchefant did his best to mask his growing irritation, “You’ve become so skilled at weaving backhanded words of altruism, Francel.”

“Don’t mistake my concern for the sort of selfless words you so easily throw around, Haurchefant. I worry about you not just as a friend but as a fellow soldier. You and her, you both have your roles to play and higher powers to serve—since you were a boy you sought to serve Ishgard and the knighthood granted you this. She serves the greater of Eorzea. If there’s anything growing up in Ishgard should have taught you, it’s that we have our places.”

Perhaps it was those particular words that threw oil on the spark. Anger bursting forth like fire, Haurchefant pinned his friend into the wall. His voice came a shout, echoing against the icy walls of Dragonhead, “OUR PLACES? We have our PLACES? What do you know of the  _places_  in which we are born?! Of roles to play? Answer me that, Francel, what do you even know?”

Francel remained silent, knowing full well that by saying nothing, he could watch Haurchefant’s storm pass as quickly as it came. And so it did—Haurchefant’s jaw quivered and the taller man glanced downward. Francel felt Haurchefant’s white-knuckled grip on his mail shudder. In a short beat, Haurchefant chuckled pleasantly and that black cloud over him was gone, replaced by the usual sunny day in his voice.

“You know not a damned thing, friend. But it is quite understandable.”

“I know everything that you taught me.”

Haurchefant grit his teeth, feeling as though he’d been kicked in the gut by his friend’s words. Still, however, he struggled to keep from letting his rage take over again.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose this is correct.” Haurchefant laughed again, quiet at first, then slightly louder. He released Francel, patting snow off of the man’s shoulders and then with a heavy sigh, Haurchefant nodded, “Very much right you are. My apologies for that outburst.”

Francel only looked at him in a way Haurchefant knew all too well—a way that so clearly said,  _“You are beyond saving, and it kills me to see it.”_

“Don’t let it happen again.” Francel took Haurchefant’s hand, a feeling reminiscent of their youths—Francel’s hand was the hand that reached out to Haurchefant each and every time he found himself irreparable. Haurchefant looked downward at their gloved hands.

A hollow sensation washed over him. Some strong wave of familiarity. As though he’d looked down at their hands at that very moment before, as snow fell and as the black stone of Dragonhead glistened in frost around them. 

“I watched you fall apart for Kiergan and for Y’mira before and I can’t watch you fall apart again.” Francel said.

Francel’s words seemed like a far off echo as Haurchefant furrowed his brow, hearing, now, this sense of having been through this very moment before. 

The startling sensation passed and he realized the names Francel had said.

“Don’t speak their names.” Haurchefant breathed, expression empty, “…please.”

That evening he lay in his bedcot with Francel’s warnings plaguing his mind. Surely his friend only had mind for his well-being. For better or for worse, it was Francel’s nature to bleed for others before they had even been struck. There was a damnable rightness to his friend’s point, at that. If only Francel had simply left it at that—there was no reason to bring Kiergan and Y’mira into his narrative. 

Those were scars that would not be healed for a long while, if ever. Scars that Francel was right to imply would be reopened and cut deeper should he lose his beloved adventurer. 

It brought forth again the temptation to leave his post at Dragonhead to follow her wherever Eorzea may beckon. 

He shut his eyes, murmering bitterly to himself, “Idiot fantasies.”

 

* * *

 

The morning had been cold, but as the sun rose up above the clouds on a particularly windless day, the adventurer found herself a touch burned by it’s light. She muttered some obscenities under her breath in her crude, typically Lominsan fashion and Emmanellain rolled his eyes again, “…pirate.”

He’d taken to calling her that in the recent days. Perhaps since she had come to his rescue in the Sian Siran ponds—the fool had been so busy collecting spring crystals that he’d allowed cloudworms to gather around him. He had shrieked like a schoolgirl as the adventurer stormed in on a lancer’s leap and tore the cloudworms into a bloody heap. By the time she’d kicked the last beast’s head off the tip of her polearm, the waters ran scarlet and Emmanellain trembled amidst rocks. 

“Bloody… bloody pirate! No concern for the mess you leave in your wake!” Emmanellain had shouted.

The adventurer had merely given him a cold look as she took out a cloth and slid it across the smooth point’s surface. As if cleaning her weapon before returning it to the binding on her back was enough cleaning of the mess in her wake. She was growing increasingly tired of babysitting the bothersome boy.

“It’s bloody hot up here… I’d have never anticipated a day without wind in Abalathia’s Spine.” The adventurer followed alongside a thoroughly unimpressed Emmanellain as they made their rounds on patrol. The boy had, since the incident at the ponds, managed to work his way up in assignments of importance from Laniaette. Perhaps his efforts to impress the woman were grating on her as well.

“You’d best get used to it, who knows how long father should have us up here.” Emmanellain answered.

“I’m tempted to hunt cloudworm for it’s meat… looks to be a bit rich and good on a roast…” The adventurer thought aloud, taking amusement in Emmanellain’s scandalized expression. Glancing to the Fortemps boy with a grin, the adventurer added, “Should we be up here long enough, there may be days where supply runs scant and we’re permitted to hunt the meats of this land. I have some curiosity.”

Emmanellain looked to be finding words for his disgust before giving a loud, “UGH!” and pressing forward to the front of their recon troupe, “…foul pirate, you’d eat anything, wouldn’t you?!”

The adventurer simply shrugged when she caught Alphinaud’s nearby chuckling. 

At some point in the high hours of the day their troupe had split into two groups. On one hand, it was to make gathering of spring crystals more efficient and on another, it allotted the adventurer some precious time away from Emmanellain’s moaning and complaining. She cleared a path for her group of Fortemps and Haillenarte soldiers with her lance and they made a quick effort of gathering. 

Evening was beginning to fall by the time they returned to the meeting point outside of Camp Cloudtop. 

Much to her annoyance, Emmanellain was nowhere to be seen.

“Leviathan’s Hells… where’d the git run off to?” The adventurer asked one of the Haillenarte soldiers she’d last seen with the boy.

The soldier shrugged, “Lefarve and I were tasked to split off of the group around Voor Sian Siran to seek out more crystals. We were instructed to gather all that we could carry and return straight for the camp, Ma’am.”

Alphinaud’s brow furrowed in concern as he looked up at the adventurer, “Mayhap he needs our assistance?”

“When doesn’t he need assistance…?” The adventurer said.

Alphinaud put a hand on her armored shoulder and nodded, before adding cautiously, “Be aware that we are his father’s wards. I know taking orders has never been your strong point… at least, beyond requests from Minfilia. Perhaps we should set out to look for Emmanellain?”

The adventurer nodded, “You’re right.”

“Soldiers, in which direction was Emmanellain last seen?” 

“He was headed north-east of the Voor pools. Convinced he’d find more springs up that way.” The soldier answered.

Taking in this information, the adventurer headed out, Alphinaud at her side. They spent the next six hours scouring the rocky plains and floating isles for Emmanellain, with not as much of a hint of his troupe. 

“…Alphinaud… you don’t suppose the little bastard’s gone and fallen off the edge?” The adventurer meekly asked.

“I pray not. I’m growing less irritated with the boy and more concerned for his safety—we cannot afford to lose him or jeapardize this mission. Not after all that Haurchefant has done for us. Moreover, the lad may be quite a little prick at times, but he is still our ally…”

“We’ll find him, Alphinaud. Don’t you worry your little silver head…”

Crickets were chirping up a veritable orchestra as the two resigned to their own silence. Their search had come up fruitless and with a mind of defeat, Alphinaud suggested, “Mayhap he’s already returned to Cloudtop…?”

“Let’s place our bets.” The adventurer said, tucking the binoculars away into a satchel. 

 

* * *

 

Each night, his documents and missives long since dealt with and filed away, Haurchefant watched the flames die in the hearth across from his desk. He watched with his hands clasped together and an intense gaze fixed on the embers. His mind was vividly fixated on a memory of her, months ago—by the twelve, did it seem like an eternity had passed since.

“The Coerlclaws and their ‘King’ had fought so hard,” the adventurer had chuckled, months before in the seat across from Haurchefant’s, “all we could give ’em was a good batty-fangin—”

Haurchefant had half-snorted, half-laughed at her words and said, “ _Battre a fin._ ”

“Eh?” The adventurer said, her features—so terribly adorable—twisted up in confusion.

“ _Battre a fin_ … it is an Ishgardian phrase. It means… ah… it’s a finishing of a fight.” 

“Batty-fang? In Lominsa, that’s all a good mopping of the decks with their arses.” The adventurer had a few drinks at this point and tended to let her Lominsan flair for vulgarity show. On anyone else, it’d have driven Haurchefant mad with annoyance. With her, however, he was eager to learn what other crude turns of phrases she’d picked up from the world.

She’d fallen quiet, eyes thoughtfully turned upward before she said, with some curiosity, “Ishgard has it’s own language and yet you speak Eorzean’s Common Tongue… why is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Initially, they say, Ishgard was to know the Common Tongue for the sake of diplomacy. For a good few decades, however, Ishgardians had all but given up on ever again socializing with the other folk of Eorzea. When I was a boy, we did not learn the Common Tongue in school… it was only after the Calamity that old books were reopened and the Holy See demanded it’s citizens be fluent in  _‘la moindre langue’_  as it was known to us.” Haurchefant took a drink from his wineglass, settling it back down with a nostalgic feeling in his mind, “…I had always wondered what this secret language was and why it’d been kept out of my grasp for so many years. I ate it up with fervor, ate up it’s every book I could get my hands on. The Calamity opened Ishgard’s curriculum up to fragments of history from the world around us. It wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to know it all.”

“You and I… we are not that different, are we?” The adventurer had said cautiously—a smile crossed Haurchefant’s lips as he longed to know just what suddenly made them so similar in her mind. After a pause of thought, the adventurer said, “I grew up on an island in the Rhotano. Closed off from the world. Surrounded by a wall of water. Most of the folk on the island got their knowledge of the world from sailors in the port. I listened to it all, dreaming every day that… that perhaps at some point, I could stow away on one of their ships and learn more about this fabled world beyond the sea. I was given fragments of history… and I wanted to piece it together.”

“Is that how you came to join the Scions?” Haurchefant asked.

The adventurer gave a quiet laugh, “That was a mere manner of being in the wrong place at the wrong time… The Admiral was seeking a Warrior of Light. Mayhap she mistook me for one. Nonetheless, here I am… somehow still alive.”

“I’m eternally grateful for her misjudgment, then.” Haurchefant teased.

The adventurer made an amused face and took a drink.

“You truly have become one, however. A Warrior of Light. You embody such hope in a bleak time.”

The adventurer gazed downward, falling silent.

“Anytime I’d expect to have you returned to me in a grim manner, bloodied and dismantled, you’ve returned time and time again carrying the heads of your enemies.” Haurchefant said—the adventurer made a face at his morbid exaggeration and he chuckled with a quick and quiet apology before continuing, “You have strength that goes unmatched. The strength to protect our world. I… I’m fascinated by it. What I would give to follow in such light.”

He caught the corner of her lips rise just slightly, before her usual air of melancholy returned. 

“Thank you for everything, Haurchefant. It’s gotten rather late and I should be going.”

Defeated, Haurchefant gave a weak nod, “Yes, it has gotten late… you are always more than welcome, friend. At any hour.”

She had given him a smile before leaving, and he was once again alone for the night, craving her presence. How many nights did he spend caressing himself to release just thinking of her voice, her lips and it’s penchant for eloquence as well as vulgarity?

Back then, all thoughts of her body were pure imagination. Singleminded, lustful fantasies of a girl he was certain he’d never hold in his arms, much less take to his own bed, in his own home and wake up beside the next morning.

Now he knew every curve and angle of her precious body. Even nearly a week later, he could still remember the scent of her skin and taste of her tongue.

He tried his best to catch sleep in his lonely Dragonhead quarters—truly, he tried. But her voice, low and softly textured with grit echoed in his ears. Haurchefant could almost feel the soft flesh of her fingers curled around his cock, stroking a gentle and sweet torture. Despite their tryst the night before, he still had only curiosity as to what her lips would feel like around his length. Perhaps silken, warm, sucking and moaning quietly while her skilled little tongue traced each and every vein in his member.

Haurchefant turned onto his side and groaned with quiet frustration. The pressure and hardness between his legs was unforgiving. Only after some sleepless hour did he finally manage to catch sleep—and even then he was haunted by memories and ghost sensations of her hips grinding against his own, her kisses hot against his lips. In vivid detail he saw and felt himself taking her on that very bedcot, holding one beautiful leg about his waist as he drove deep into her. It was just as back in the first visits he’d shared with her—when she would leave his presence for battle and leave him just as hard and desperate for her body against his own. Even the sheets teased the tip of his length with his every bothered movement.

His forearm resting over his eyes, he sighed. His fingertips brushed over his collarbone, the fading site of a love bite she had left him with days before. Feverish kisses had littered both of their shoulders and necks with matching, territorial marks. What he would give to have her in his arms nibbling at his neck again. Haurchefant glanced sideward at the fire going dim in it’s hearth.

 _“She would, perhaps, be complaining of the cold at this point,”_  he thought with warm amusement at how intolerant his love was of the cold.

He succumbed to his own needs, letting his palm move down across his rock-hard length. His hips moved in slow, but shallow thrusts, letting his hand massage the lustful ache from his loins.

 _“Ohh, Haurchefant, you wonderful fool, yes…”_  He imagined her voice pleading, gasping,  _“A-ah, let me ride your tongue!”_

Dragging his fist up around his shaft, teasing over the shaft and then sliding back down, he dreamt of her womanhood’s lips parted by his tongue. He imagined what her clit would feel like, suckled between his lips, what her voice would sound like as her back arched and her head fell back in bliss. Perhaps it would be sweet? Sweet, salty, something like that summer air she seemed to have about her.

All too happily would he oblige, Haurchefant thought, thrusting into his hand. As well, he would be all too happy to guide her body around, to guide her mouth down to take his cock and suck while he continued to lap up every sweet droplet of lust in her entrance. The thought sent a shudder of pleasure down his spine—the two of them sucking each other hungrily, hands roaming across and caressing one another’s bodies. Her mouth would be like hot, wet velvet around his shaft and his hips pressed upward into the mouth of his imagined lover.

 _“My love… oh gods, yes, get even wetter for me…”_  Haurchefant moaned, reminiscing on the way her womanhood gushed wet when she climaxed. Imagining his name cried out in her euphoric voice, he couldn’t take much more of this pleasurable torment. The tightening heat in his belly was as demanding as his mind’s rendition of his lover’s head bobbed over his shaft. Wordless cries crossed Haurchefant’s lips as release hit—his hand pumped furiously around his length as his seed rushed down his phantom lover’s throat (or rather, trickled down his knuckles and made a hot, sticky trail on his belly.)

As his feverish high broke, he remembered she was no where to be seen—his imagination once again fell back into the recesses of his mind and there he was again, alone in a bedcot in Coerthas.

The following days were mundane silence, routine happenings. Training drills and patrols around the whole of Central Coerthas, the usual biting snowstorm falling in and drifting out as quickly as it had come. It was easy enough to busy himself with other happenings, but every little mention of Abalathia’s Spine and Camp Cloudtop perked his interest.

There was the confirmation of another wave of supplies procured for Camp Cloudtop, which he was to report to Laniaette via linkpearl. That particular channel of communication was often a temptation to listen in on—perhaps for the happenchance he’d catch his lover’s voice giving orders to some soldiers or even a sarcastic quip between relay of information. 

By Francel’s recommendation, he’d opted not to bother with the linkpearl unless he needed to speak with Laniaette. No word from or of the adventurer. Not that he’d be daring enough to inquire. 

“Bask in this awkward silence, then, Haurchefant.” He sighed to himself after ending the last call to Laniaette.

Francel was laying a stack of folders on Haurchefant’s desk when he looked over to the elezen standing silent before the hearth. 

“Laniette is awaiting the next wave of supplies, yes?” Francel asked.

Haurchefant made a quiet grunt of affirmation, more fixated on the flames. 

“You’re brooding again.” Francel pointed out.

“Perhaps I am.”

Haurchefant heard Francel give an irate sigh before he made his way out of the office. 

Perhaps two nights had passed since that last contact with Cloudtop. 

Embarrassingly enough—or perhaps frustratingly—it was Francel who stormed into Haurchefant’s office to find the Lord slouched asleep at his desk, an open, empty bottle of wine resting nearby. Francel stopped a few steps into the room, taking in the pitiable sight, grumbling under his breath. It may have been a while since he’d walked in to Haurchefant like this, but it grated on him each and every time. Throwing open the curtains and letting blinding-white daylight in, he announced, “Look alive, m’Lord!”

Haurchefant gave a lazy groan as he stirred.

Throwing open the last curtain, Francel turned to Haurchefant, “Emmanellain has gone missing.”

Haurchefant bolted to attention, “What?”

“Word from Laniaette over the linkpearl came not long ago. She’d been trying to reach you. Emmanellain was last seen sixteen hours ago, on patrol north-east of Voor Sian Siran. It’s estimated there are five soldiers with him. They were seeking spring crystals to aid the camp’s water supply. The adventurer and her cohort have gone looking for him with a number of Haillenarte and Fortemps men.”

Haurchefant’s face paled—the sinking feeling inside of him was only worsened by a bothersome hangover. Brushing his messy silver tresses from his face, Haurchefant cleared his throat and said, “I will assist them.”

Francel’s lips were a straight line of disapproval. He nodded, hands folded tight behind his back.

“I figured as much.” He answered.

Haurchefant was already up and re-fitting the armor he’d thrown off in the night. He made for his sword and shield as Francel watched, instructing, “Just like before, Francel, I’ll have you head the camp in my stead.”

“Understood.” Francel said, before asking cautiously, “…and how long do I tell the troops this arrangement is to last?”

Haurchefant was quick to reply, “Until Emmanellain is found, consider it indeterminate.”

Francel continued to eye Haurchefant—and Haurchefant knew how transparent he was at that particular moment.

“Do not look at me so, Francel.” 

“Promise me you’ll not get swept up in that adventurer’s journey. It is hers. Not yours. Your place is here.”

“I know where I belong.” Haurchefant said.

 


End file.
